love on the rocks
by artisfashion
Summary: Rachel gets drunk. And awesome.  Set during Blame it on the Alcohol.  Rachel/Blaine, Rachel/Jesse, Rachel/Puck, Rachel/Finn. Kinda.


It's like the better a boy can sing, the more Rachel Berry wants to make out with him. Sometimes that leads to mistakes, (namely Finn, Noah and Jesse), but sometimes it leads to thoroughly awesome decisions, like kissing and subsequently singing with Blaine. (Which leads to making out with Blaine, which is either almost as good as or way better than duetting with him. Rachel can't decide.)

Maybe it is the alcohol impairing her artistic judgment, but when she is onstage singing it with Blaine, "Don't You Want Me" seems like the best song that has ever been written. "You can really sing!" she gasps between verses, covering up the bedazzled pink microphone with her hand. (Even drunk, she won't let her admiration of a fellow artist compromise the integrity of a song.)

Blaine just grins at her and they launch into the chorus together.

She spends the whole performance smiling as she sings and by the end of the song she's staring at Blaine like he's the only boy in the room. "I wanna kiss you some more," she says breathlessly as the music fades out.

"That is an awesome idea."

* * *

><p>They are oblivious to everybody, but not everybody is oblivious to <em>them<em>.

* * *

><p>Finn and Kurt stop things before they go <em>too<em> far.

"She's never been drunk before," Finn reasons at first. "And besides. She's still like, totally hung up on me, so... it's not like anything is gonna happen." But his hands are jammed into his pockets and he uses them to anchor him in place. There's nothing he'd like more than to drag Blaine off of Rachel, but... Quinn is watching.

Finn's torn, but really. He doesn't want to give either of them the wrong idea.

Kurt ignores Finn's strained posture, and airily adds what he considers to be the obvious: "Also, he's _gay_." He grimaces when he sees Blaine's hand land on Rachel's breast and _squeeze_, but still. Blaine's gay.

"This is the worst party ever," Finn says sullenly. (It took Finn months to get to second base with Rachel. It took Blaine like twenty minutes. He's not bitter.)

Kurt brightens. "Tell you what. We'll alternate. I'll keep an eye on them for the next half hour or so or until it gets too unbearable, then we'll swap.

"Yeah, that's creepy," Finn scoffs. "I'm not just going to sit here all night and watch them get their grope on."

"Technically it'd only be half the night," Kurt points out, and if looks could kill Finn would have a ton of explaining to do to Burt and Carole. But Kurt soldiers on. "_Anyway_, if they do something they regret then we'll regret it too, so suck it up, you baby."

* * *

><p><em>There is something to be said for voyeurism<em>, Finn thinks. _It sucks._

When Rachel's leg hitches up around Blaine's hip, Finn winces.

When Blaine's hand rides up Rachel's calf and disappears underneath the miles of mint-green fabric that comprise Rachel's dress, Finn abandons the enterprise entirely.

* * *

><p>Kurt is busy debating the relative fabulousness of Ke$ha to Lady Gaga with Mercedes when Finn interrupts. Truthfully, it's not much of a debate anyway — no matter what Kurt says, Mercedes just giggles, so really he's just talking to himself. Still, he's displeased by Finn's appearance and he says so with a look.<p>

"Your turn, man," Finn says, his breathing rough with frustration. "You're up."

Kurt just narrows his eyes and glares at Finn with disbelief and contempt. "It has been _five minutes_."

"Yeah, I know." Finn just shrugs. "But his hand just went up her skirt, dude, I can't watch that, it's—"

"Finn. That is a _code red_. We have to separate them _immediately_, we have to take him home. What is wrong with you?"

What's wrong with Finn is that he's pretty sure that Kurt just made that up, and also that his ex-girlfriend is getting hot and heavy with a gay dude, but Kurt's already dashed off to the other side of the room before he formulates a comeback. "Are you okay?" he finally asks Mercedes, but she just laughs at him and walks away.

* * *

><p>Getting Blaine off of Rachel is no small feat. Blaine's not really resisting, but he's certainly not helping the situation, either. Really, he's dead weight. Meanwhile Rachel is protesting, inviting <em>everybody<em> to sleep over; she has couches, she has guest rooms, she has _more alcohol_. And what, pray tell, is more awesome than a glee club (plus Blaine!) sleepover?

Nothing, that's what. But they veto it nonetheless, and when Finn finally gets his weight under Blaine and propels him to a standing position, Rachel declares them both the "fun police" and rises shakily to her feet.

"Where are _you_ going?" Finn asks, and Rachel just throws up her palm in a "talk to the hand" gesture and stumbles off in search of Noah.

She finds him still wearing Lauren's glasses, with his head propped up on her chest, looking very content, if stupid.

"Noah," she says firmly, hinging at the hips to grab his hand. (She nearly faceplants into Lauren's abundant cleavage in the process, but she regains her footing — just barely — and stands up.) "Noah, I need your help. Come help me. Sorry, Lauren, I'm just... I need Noah for a minute."

Puck nods, gazing at a blurry Rachel through the thick glasses, and when she plants her feet and _pulls_ to drag him to his feet, he helpfully tries to rise on his own. Somehow, they manage it. It's a team effort.

He takes off the glasses and perches them backward on the crown of Lauren's head. "I'll be back," he says, and Lauren just waves him away.

"What's up?" he asks Rachel, blinking as the room comes back into quasi-focus.

At that moment Rachel thinks that if she weren't so scared of Lauren Zizes, she'd kiss Puck right now. He's hot. He can sing. He is awesome at kissing. She has the best taste in boys. She files it away for later.

"Will you make me another drink?" she asks him instead. "You make them the _best._"

Puck is agreeable. "I'm gonna make you a kamikaze," he says seriously, leading her to the bar. "It's like, it's green. Bright green."

Rachel claps while he's making it, the smile wide on her face, and when he passes her the shot glass she tries to take a dainty sip. She makes a face, and Puck laughs.

"No, dude, you've gotta _down it_," he says, and he plucks the shot glass out of her hand. A tiny bit sloshes onto the bar, but she doesn't notice. Puck lifts the glass up and presses it to her lips. "Open up," he commands, and she obliges, but she's giggling as he pours the alcohol into her mouth and some of it dribbles down her chin. She wipes her mouth with her sleeve.

"It's a good thing my dress is green," she observes, and Puck just nods. He's reaching for the bottle of vodka again when Finn spots him and immediately declares the party over.

"You, Finn Hudson, are a spoilsport," she says, annoyed at the turn the evening's taken. "And probably jealous."

Finn laughs, which is probably a mistake, and he reaches up to brush her hair back from her face. "You'll thank me tomorrow," he replies gently, smiling. "When you call to tell me all about your very first hangover. Are you ready for bed?"

"Do I _look_ ready for bed?" she grumbles.

"Actually? Kinda, yeah."

Rachel tries to hit him. She's three inches away but she misses the mark every time. "Stop. Moving."

"I'm not moving. You're drunk. Come on, you should go to bed."

"No," she says firmly. "Everybody's still here, and you said no to a sleepover, and I can't go to bed before my guests leave. Because they're my _guests_, and that would be impolite and I have impeccable manners. What would Emily Post say?"

If Finn is aware of the fact that Emily Post died in 1960, he wisely doesn't let on. "Okay," he agrees mildly.

Rachel insists on waiting by the door while he and Kurt get everybody out of the house and into Finn's mom's van and Kurt's SUV. She thanks everybody profusely for making her party such a resounding success, and not a single person rolls their eyes (while she is looking at them). Kurt leaves first, and as he pulls out of the driveway she waves at him frantically and blows kisses at the car until it's out of sight.

When she is done, Finn is still there, standing a few feet away. "Are you ready for bed _now_?"

"_Fine,_" she says, the smile fading from her face. "But I still think we could've had an _awesome_ slumber party."

"Yeah, well, maybe next time your dads go out of town."

"But since we're _not_ having a slumber party," she says pointedly, "you can go. Thanks for coming and all, but I can take it from here. I am an expert at going to sleep."

"Oh, no," Finn says quickly. "I'm gonna make sure you get upstairs and into bed safely, they can wait five minutes." Before Rachel can protest he bends down and scoops her up and into his arms. She squeaks in surprise, but doesn't put up a struggle.

"I can _walk_, Finn," she says, but he just tightens his grip; in response she drops her head to his shoulder with a sigh and flings her arms loosely round his neck. "I'm not an _invalid_."

"Nope," he replies agreeably. "You're just drunk, and considering how you just did another shot, you're going to be like, way more drunk and even less graceful in about five minutes. So."

"I'm extremely graceful," Rachel argues, but Finn's arms are solid and she can't wriggle away. He doesn't set her down until they reach the thick carpet of her bedroom, and even then he doesn't let her go until he warns her to be careful.

She navigates to her dresser, glancing backward every few steps to make sure that Finn is watching as she doesn't fall down. He nods to indicate that he is very impressed, and when she retrieves pajamas from the bottom drawer he tells her _again_ to be careful and that he'll be right back.

"I _know,_" Rachel says. "I'm careful. I'm fine. I'm better than fine, I am awesome." (She trips on her way to the bathroom but she manages to recover before she hits the floor. Finn doesn't need to know.)

She manages to get into her pajamas without further incident and is busy brushing her teeth when Finn returns to her bedroom with the entire Brita pitcher and her reusable Starbucks cold cup with a screw-on lid and an unbreakable straw. "It's good that you have this," he says, tapping the cup with his index finger. "You're less likely to spill. Remember to drink a _lot,_ it'll help with the hangover."

"Okay," Rachel says, and she has to admit, she's the teensiest bit grateful. Finn pulls the covers back on her bed, and she makes her way over, stopping only to pick up her phone from her purse. "Just in case my dads call," she explains, and even though Finn is doubtful, it occurs to him that everybody she knows was at the party. She's got nobody to drunk dial.

She sets the phone on her nightstand and climbs into bed, letting Finn pull the blankets up to her chin and tuck her in. "I'll call you tomorrow," he promises, kissing her on the forehead. "You can tell me all about your first hangover."

"Thanks, Finn," she yawns. "Goodnight."

* * *

><p>Rachel stares at the ceiling for a while. Every time she closes her eyes she feels the room spin around her and her stomach drop into the mattress, and she's not tired enough for it to be worth it anyway.<p>

_The better a boy sings_, she thinks for the second time that night, _the better he kisses. _Maybe there's no scientific proof for it, but that's been her experience — and as much fun as she had singing with Blaine, there was one guy in her life who both sang and kissed circles around him.

There was a reason why she'd almost given up her virginity to Jesse St. James barely two weeks after meeting him. His voice had melted her heart and his kisses very nearly did the same to her resolve. When he'd broken her heart a few weeks later, she'd been proud of herself for resisting him, but there had always been a part of her that wondered — if he could sing like that, if he could kiss like that — what else could he do?

Part of her still wonders.

She decides to call him. She figures, he's in Los Angeles, she is... tipsy, and there is a reason why drunk dialing is such a popular activity among America's youth. She fumbles on her nightstand until she finds her phone, and she's really glad that she'd never let Kurt and Mercedes talk her into deleting his number. ("He could still be a valuable business contact someday!" she'd argued, but her friends, at least, knew that that was just code for 'I'm neither over him nor ready to take that step,' and they'd given her a break.)

The phone rings once — twice — thr—

He answers. His sleepy "hello" suggests that he's just been woken up, but Rachel _checked_ the time before she called, she's drunk, not impolite, and it's barely eleven o'clock there. On a Saturday.

"Jesse?"

"Rachel _Berry_?" He's awake now, and he sounds surprised. Well, why wouldn't he be. He'd only crushed an egg on her head, for heaven's sake. He'd only broken her _heart_.

"Yes," she says, and she finds it hard to sound serious when she's speaking an octave higher than usual and she can tell that she's slurring her words. "And I am _calling you_ to tell you that I am still very dissatisfied with the way you ended our relationship. I thought it was — why are you laughing?"

"You're drunk dialing me, aren't you? That is... unexpected. And, honestly, a delightful surprise. Have you been thinking about me?"

"_No," _she says firmly, but even she can tell it sounds like a lie. "I mean, yes, I have been drinking. I hosted a glee club gala this evening, and I didn't think about you at _all_, I actually made out with Kurt's boyfriend. And it was awesome, I will have you know."

"Kurt has a boyfriend?" (_Yeah, _Rachel thinks. _That's the part he focuses on.)_

"Not exactly. Why are you so focused on Kurt, anyway? Oh my god, are _you_—"

"Just because I'm a triple-threat performer with amazing hair it doesn't make me _gay_, Rachel. You should know that as well as anybody."

"_Maybe_," Rachel says thoughtfully. "But I actually don't really know you at all, so who am I to assume things?"

"Touché."

"Aren't you going to even apologize? I mean, that's not why I called or anything, and I'm certainly not expecting you to, and you're probably not even sorry anyway, but —"

"Of course I'm sorry, Rachel. I would have apologized a long time ago if I thought you would believe me, or that it would make a difference. But if it's worth anything now, yes. I'm sorry. That was the worst thing I've ever done to anybody, and you didn't deserve it."

"Well, now you're just apologizing because I asked you to."

It's Jesse's turn to sigh in exasperation. "Why are you calling, anyway? Is it — wait. Are you looking for a prom date?"

"Oh please, Jesse St. James. Get over yourself. It's February."

"You know how hard it is to get over me. Do you already have your dress?"

"No, I don't and no I do not, and even if I did, either of those things, I don't see how it's relevant."

"You probably wouldn't," he says, and he's laughing. At her. She fumes momentarily, but then he continues. "Rachel, I really am sorry. And you can take that for what you will, and I hope you forgive me. If you look on me at all fondly tomorrow when you're sober, please call me. I miss you."

He's probably right. This conversation is going nowhere positive.

"I miss you too," she says. "And I will... I will maybe talk to you tomorrow. Goodnight, Jesse."

Through more luck than skill, she manages to disconnect the call on the first try.

* * *

><p>This time when she settles back in bed and closes her eyes, the room isn't spinning, and the exhaustion is starting to creep into her bones. Her last thought before she drifts off is, <em>best night ever<em>, and when she finally falls asleep she has a smile on her face.


End file.
